SHOWMANSHIP!

I have discussed how concerts of classical have become too formal, too somber, and too dull to enjoy. True, the music is far superior to that which is served at a pop concert, but if one owns audiophile-grade, sound-reproduction equipment there is little reason to attend a live performance. What advantage is there to seeing a symphony performed as opposed to hearing your favorite version of the same symphony over a few drinks while in your easy chair? Does witnessing the spectacle of the conductor doing his ballet and making faces at the orchestra increase your musical pleasure? I should hope not.

There's no arguing the fact that pop music compensates for its shabby music with better visuals than classical concerts provide, but surely one would never expect an ensemble performing the holy relics of a bygone golden age to stoop to visual enhancement, nicht wahr?

Consider, however, this passage from "The Tone Art," a chapter in Heathen Days a book of reminiscences by American journalist, H. L. Mencken.

There were two great [concert] set pieces that were never missed: indeed, the audiences of the day would have set down an Italian band leader as a fraud if he failed to play them. One was the sextette from "Lucia di Lammermoor," done with all the trumpets and trombones lined up on the apron of the platform, and the other was the anvil chorus from "Il Travatore," with a row of real anvils in the same place, and a series of electric wires so arranged that big blue sparks were struck off as the gentlemen of the percussion section clouted the anvils with real hammers. For this last effect, of course, the lights were always turned out. It had been invented years before... by the celebrated Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore, the greatest of all American bandmasters, but by the turn of the century he was dead and forgotten, and the wops who worked his masterpiece all claimed credit for it.

Thus, when classical music was popular and made an effort to please an audience, we had light shows at concerts. What happened to them?

Ah, but the more cerebral readers will object that an outdoor band concert is not true art—that's decidedly middlebrow... or worse—someone might enjoy it. So I turn instead to the example of that great classical artist, MC Hammer.

I don't recall exactly when MC Hammer was popular, and there's nothing sadder than a has-been music star, but in his day, The Hammer would astound the audience by gyrating as much as any classical conductor, until at the end of his set, he would collapse in exhaustion at the front of the stage! His valet would then come out, drape a cloak over the star, help him to his feet and lead him off stage. But before he made it to the wings, MC Hammer would triumphantly throw off the cloak and rush out to the front of the stage to begin singing again. This would invariably drive the audience wild.

The more astute reader will have recognized by now that such a device was not at all original with MC Hammer, as he stole the entire routine from the king of soul music, James Brown. Only, James Brown would perform the trick with much more drama and realism. The audience really did think he had collapsed from exhaustion, and Ella Overton, his personal announcer, would be shouting at the audience, "People! People! Give it up for Mr. James Brown, the hardest working man in show business!"

This would send the crowd into a frenzy, and James Brown made it seem that he was revitalized by the tumultuous applause, throw off the cloak, charge back to the front of the stage grab the microphone and begin belting out "Please! Please! Please!" or another of his hits. At this point members of the audience would often be overcome.

Thus, MC Hammer learned the routine, the whole bit, from James Brown. Divine Scripture teaches us (ref.: Ecclesiastes 1:9) that "There's no new thing under the sun," so James Brown in turn got it from someone else. Just who that was, I don't know, but I do know who originated the routine—Franz Liszt.

Liszt was a killer showman, and he was the first to perform that entire sequence. He would drive the audience wild with a virtuoso performance, and then at the very end, he would act like he was utterly spent and unable to continue, at which point he would collapse at the piano, his valet would rush out on stage and drape a cloak over the great man's shoulders and help him to his feet. And just as he neared the wings, Franz Liszt would apparently be revitalized by the sound of the audience screaming themselves hoarse, throw off the cloak, and rush back to begin tearing-up the keyboard anew.

This is what classical music was like when it was good. When is the last time you witnessed an audience member faint from excitement at a classical concert? Fall asleep, yes; faint, no. And if you are one of the prissy types who disapprove of such shenanigans, if you are helping to keep classical music mired in a lethargic formalism, then you, and not any punk rock group or any kid with a ring in his nose are to blame for the decline of classical music.